My Final Weapon is Hatred
by Technorganic Nerd
Summary: Professor Zündapp swore on the last fraction of his life that he would exact his revenge on C.H.R.O.M.E and finally kill Finn McMissile. All he needed were weapons, some of which derived from his emotions...[On temporary hiatus due to Writer's Block]
1. Act I: Unchained

Here we go, readers... My first fanfiction. Please review nicely, and no flames will be accepted. In fact, I can use them to burn Chick Hicks.

Another thing as well: this fanfiction was inspired by the song "The End Has Come" by Ben Moody. So all things considered, enjoy and leave feedback! (Make sure to vote for my poll on my profile! I won't update any further unless I have enough votes.)

[All characters mentioned in this work of literature are copyright to PIXAR Animation Studios. All events that occur are crafted by the author and any relations to realistic events are completely coincidental. All plot and story elements are solely in the hands of the author. All works of music mentioned are copyright to their respective owners.]

**Act I: Unchained**

They stole everything from him. They stripped him of his license to wreck havoc upon the world, stuffing him in the jail cell inside C.H.R.O.M.E's prison, tossing his soul and spirit away to rot amongst the other unfortunate fire starters of evil. These agents were his worst nightmare and vice versa.

None, in spite of that, were more haunting than the dreaded high-ranking Finn McMissile.

Oh, how he desired to crush him into a million shards of metal.

His weapons, henchmen, lair, everything was discovered and were either demolished or emptied out completely. Dead were many of his loyal lemons, imprisoned was the liar Sir Miles Axlerod – although you couldn't really consider him a "sir" anymore – and his schemes of wrongdoing and wickedness had been whisked off into the sands of history, done for, no longer a threat to the planet Earth.

For three entire years it had remained this way.

_For far too long it has been this way_, the Professor glanced at the steel ground, deep in thought. _It's time this Manufacturer-forsaken nation experiences the peak of my brutality against the greatest agent of C.H.R.O.M.E. In fact, this nation is _far_ overdue for the monstrosity of its worst nightmare._

All he needed was a weapon, a mechanism to brawl against his enemy...

_For the final time._

He would spend countless of hours designing it, polishing it, and executing its attacks on his predators. Yes, this layout of "The Last Impression" would end perfectly, with his target perishing. When he himself passed, he would leave the realm of the living knowing that he successfully drenched C.H.R.O.M.E in tragedy.

From merely envisioning this his facial features lit up and a one-sided smile stroked on his right side. Mild laughter soared from his mouth in delight. _Oh, I take such pride in my occupation, don't I?_

Nothing, not even the combination of protestors could block him from achieving his long-awaited goal. They would tremble before him, begging for mercy, for a chance to continue living in freedom. They would let his every evil deed slide past their instincts of purity and allow him to get away with every crime ever instituted into the law. All of the particles that shattered from the mayhem of the World Grand Prix would levitate from the surface and form what would be massive destruction towards the espionage industry.

If only he were able to escape from this rotten jail cell.

Naturally Zündapp would have grabbed a nearby metal tool such as a hammer to break himself free of being a captive, yet not even a can of oil rested near him. Nothing besides the walls were caught in the proximity of his reach, which wasn't very extensive due to his tiny stature.

_For once a getaway involves an amount of clever reasoning, _the mint green Janus Zündapp smirked at how theoretical the staff of C.H.R.O.M.E had gotten when planning the blueprint of the prison ward. _Finally, I am challenged to use my mental capacity._

The Professor checked his surroundings to watch for guards. None idled from his point of view. He spotted a number of security cameras hidden in the gloomy shadows of the room and a dead, broken microphone for efficiently releasing or encasing subjects from their cells. So far nothing proved to be much of a threat to his scheme.

_Wunderbar._

He whacked his tire against the sturdy metal bars as hard as possible. It was difficult to do so without a sharp object or metallic device within his grasp, he had to take note of that. Ten times later he resorted to crashing his side against them, although not too harshly to avoid passing out.

No thoughts besides the goal of murder wandered about his conscious throughout the next several minutes of repeating the exact process. Zündapp swore to the Manufacturer above that he would at least damage the coldhearted cylinders blocking him. _And I will make my breakout known, _he set his level of determination, ranging from one to ten, to a ten.

All of those separated thoughts drifted back into their rightful places when he discerned the heavily beaten wires in front of his windshield. Now was the appropriate time to complete the task of actually breaking all Hell loose.

Professor Zündapp once again perceived his conditions. No cars located around the four corners, no tiny objects slipping through the passageways, no nothing. Only oxygen and his breathing occupied the barren lockup.

_Excellent, _he revved his aged engine and prepared for the solo rebellion.

If the cameras captured his flee, he would disregard it. Dodging attacks from here and there would be rather straightforward; agility was one of his most affluential qualities besides insanity (as he was informed) and brainpower.

_As long as they have no clue as to who I am after, everything is shaped according to me._

In mere seconds the car swerved through the broken bars and into the hallway. Alarms sounded from all corners imaginable, alerting the keepers that their prisoner had broken through. The colorless tone brightened to a scarlet red hue as the alarms echoed throughout the facility.

"Agents of C.H.R.O.M.E_," _the Professor quietly spoke since what felt like forever, "I have returned to creep around your thoughts and torment you."

A 1972 Honda Coupe abruptly barged into his view, loaded gun in tire.

"FREEZE!" he hollered in his thick Cockney accent, "EITHER YOU COME WITH ME OR HAVE YOUR LIFE TAKEN!"

At first startled by the sudden outburst, the captive Janus Zündapp masked his reactions behind a blank expression. It morphed into one of the most nefarious smiles the prison guard had ever experienced.

In reply to the barked order, he let the flow of words become unchained, "I'd prefer that you are the one that falls consequence to sinful doings."

All the bullets aimed at the miniature mechanism crashed through the hind walls of the jail. A feminine scream of agony was in earshot, indicating that either the woman was horrified or struck by a bullet.

The dark Honda became so distracted by the cry that enough time was left for the Professor to pound him on the hood, rendering him unconscious.

He raced from the jail and passed through passageways and skidded to a halt, smack dab into the center of the tenth floor of the building, completely surrounded by armed C.H.R.O.M.E agents. Before anyone could act, though, he leaped over them and followed the slicker, silent path that was decorated with nothing but laser cannons on the sides, targeted towards him.

Similar to his encounter with the prison guard, no shot affected him one bit as his tiny frame granted him access to a larger probability of survival from the attackers. His judgment on the result of his escape from when he was locked in the jail cell proved to be quite accurate to the present time, considering how strenuous it was for criminals to break free from the premises.

However, as Professor Zündapp persisted to steer clear of getting shot, he couldn't help but reminisce about when he was confined by all those agents. One of them appeared to be... familiar. A silver-blue paint job, closely resembling an Aston Martin DB5, a moustache for a grill, turquoise eyes...

_Wait, _he paused near the ramp to the exit. _I believe I have unearthed my target. Finn McMissile, you are in for the thriller of a lifetime._

As he conducted his descent down the ramp, that was the only thought plastered to the bulletin of his mind... Until he stumbled across a verification system.

"Please enter the password," the machine, eqiupped with a keyboard, droned in a masculine voice. Oh, how he grasped substantial joy in guessing passwords.

He attempted a random botch of numbers and letters, nonetheless he was face-to-face with a "try again".

Frantically, he used his hacking skills to uncover the password before he would be hunted down by the C.H.R.O.M.E cars. The operation contained much coding and swift keyboard motions, but he finally managed to get ahold of the password.

Then the agents zoomed in on him.

"Professor!" a familiar posh British accent echoed across the narrow hallway. "I strongly recommend that you do not move any further!"

"Finn McMissile," the German Janus Zündapp grinned his grotesque smile, revealing his rather unattractive teeth. "So it has all come down to this? I'd say not unless your friends are dead, so very dead."

The Aston Martin, mildly taken aback, was evoked of Leland Turbo, a loss which still remained impossible for him to overcome completely. He regained his composure briefly following the mentioned nightmare that never eluded him.

"...May I ask that you lower your weapons and for your friends to do likewise so that I may resume my current task."

They did not obey; alternatively they closed in on him, demanding that he be seized and thrown back in the prison if he wanted to live.

In a desperate endeavor, the Professor pressed the Return button on the device, opening the camouflaged gates for him to progress into the elevator section. He then snatched it from its position on the far right and projected it towards the wall, generating a hole sizable enough for him to retreat from.

The Professor presented his pursuers with one last glance before hurdling from the opening. The agents chose not to follow, for they believed that their enemy would perish by dropping ten stories off the ground.

They were validated wrong.

Opposed to their theories of his death, Zündapp clung to the roof of a structure, hauling himself onto it. He pinpointed another roof to jump to and performed the action. Again and again the 1957 model repeated the manuever without misfortune. He overlooked the police cars and helicopters trailing him down in the depths of the night, the night in which was alive with hunting and hunger – _his_ hunger.

_Better luck next time, McMissile, _he proceeded to jump from roof to roof, once again working his mind to communicate with him.

_But maybe there _won't_ be a next time._


	2. Act II: Penmanship

Hello fellow readers! I have returned with another chapter, signifying that I actually got myself to stick to my schedule... by listening to epic music! Well, you voted for this story to be updated first, so I promised you that. I have nothing much left to say other than: Please leave feedback, I need it to improve my writing skills. Read and review! (And I stink at car anatomy, which you will see why later in the chapter.)

[All characters mentioned in this work of literature are copyright to PIXAR Animation Studios. All events that occur are crafted by the author and any relations to realistic events are completely coincidental. All plot and story elements are solely in the hands of the author.]

**Act II: Penmanship**

Professor Zündapp breathed heavily as he ducked behind the dusty titanium barrier that was known as a door. An hour of hot pursuit by the police, which still ravaged on, guided him to this abandoned one-story facility, which was currently confusing to tell the condition of the inside. Besides the flashing lights of the helicopters heating his exterior, that's all he currently knew due to the sleepy atmosphere of the wee hours of the morning, causing the room he sought refuge in to be too dark for his vision. To be honest with himself he could've sneaked into something a trifle more refined, but then remembered that it would be easier to spot and would be conspicuous in a crowd.

In silence he heard the voices of police cars and helicopters chatting softly, despite the fact that he couldn't decipher a thing they were saying. From the sound of it, their tones were full of rage, but what could they be angered about?

_Oh, I understand,_ the Professor was struck with realization, scowling slightly. _It must be me, thank you very much. It's an absolute _honor _to be wanted for multiple crimes._

He continued to wait in anxiety for the chopping of helicopters to die down, panting even more and just about ready to pass out.

_Yes,_ _I might be getting too old for this. A sign that this is truly my final force of evil._

Promptly after sinking lower on his miniature tires in fatigue, a dangling light in need of a replacement began to quickly flicker on and off. Four times it performed this action until it dimly brightened the interior atmosphere.

Now Zündapp possessed the capability to peer into the facility he had been cloaking himself in and decide whether or not this hiding place was satisfactory enough. His assumption of it being rusty and unclean was correct, for the normally creamy yellow walls were soaked in dirty substances as well as the auburn concrete ground. An outdated computer rested on a wooden desk in the corner near the door.

_That could prove to be of good use, _his expression brightened.

A shelf with neatly stacked books remained in the far left corner, and an untended-to chest that was about his size resided close to the desk.

Once he swore that he would not use any doors when being hunted down by authorities to avoid being caught red handed, therefore he would abide by his promise. Casting aside his behavioral betrays and slyness, Professor Zündapp was a trustworthy person. Promises were locked in the core of his heart and secured for as long as that person lived.

The second portion, however, was false information. He only kept vows to himself, because he felt as though no one could be trusted when he was around.

That was why he took pride in working as an isolated individual.

Thinking for a long while, even for his top-level IQ, drained him of most of his energy. _We shall talk next time,_ he struggled to communicate with his conscious. _I would love to see what you have in store for my revenge on C.H.R.O.M.E, dear mind. _

The late 1950's model, to prevent maintaining a severely weak state before the climactic event, took action and-

Collapsed on the ground in a weary heap.

* * *

The forceful rays of the afternoon sun could not burn through the walls of the abandoned shaft, they could only heat it to a warm temperature. They did, however, enrich the city with life, whether it be animal, machine, or plant. It stretched across London like a ribbon around a present.

Finn McMissile basked in the lovely hour of twelve o'clock in a reserved manner, sipping on a can of fresh oil. Today just so happened to be his day off, a rare occasion due to his high rank and constant on-the-go schedule, thus he could temporarily relieve the stress from his missions and other personal matters.

Still Professor Zündapp invaded his thoughts. His breakout last night really had him fueled for a heated conversation or duel, which did not end up occurring.

_For Chrysler's sake,_ he quietly sighed. _Can't we strike at least one more discussion?_

When he was in jail, Finn tended to visit him from time to time, mostly once every four or five weeks. Even though they remained enemies, their chats were toned down and not about killing each other... most of the time. It took a very long while for Zündapp to stop grunting whenever he entered, nevertheless they neared forming a tie of trust by the second year.

_Like he would ever turn over a new leaf,_ Finn grimaced, ignoring the soft images of their harmless talks.

The spy secretly wished that he would be this respectful and peaceful when he wasn't in prison. He desired for him to actually follow the law, though he knew all ready that it wouldn't occur anytime soon. _Some things just don't change, do they?_

"Finn," a deep Cockney-accented voice was calmly directed towards him.

The silver-blue Aston Martin whipped around at a ninety degree angle, his liquid stream of thoughts solidified, to find an ebony Honda Coupe also lounging near the lobby.

"Nathan," he was astounded to spot him there. "I take it you are doing quite all right?"

The other C.H.R.O.M.E agent replied, "Yes, I am, Finn. And you on your fine day off?"

"Fine, thank you. Say, are you recovering well from the hit you endured from Zündapp?"

"Yes. In fact, I just got released from the infirmary two hours ago."

"Oh, you did? Marvelous job, chap."

"Thank you."

"You're quite welcome, Nathan. And I'll see you later today."

"You too."

The spies, without another word muttered, parted towards their intended paths that tilted away from each other.

_Oh, you are going to get it, Z__ü__ndapp,_ Nathan furrowed his brow in determination. _You are going to pay for the damage you have inflicted on our organization, physically, spiritually, and mentally._

Again, the day was like any other civilian predicted it to be: uneventful, relaxing, smooth, and crammed to the brim with sunshine. No cries for help could be heard, no suspicious activity was ongoing, and nothing could possibly ruin the day in which was rare for an urbanized area like London. It positively set the perfect example for how peace should be run.

No one but the C.H.R.O.M.E staff, in spite of that, knew that today was instead how "the calm before the storm" should be conducted, at least when an evil perturbation is lurking nearby; they would, without a doubt, not favor performing like a laid-back, not battle-ready Roman empire against an army of Huns.

* * *

Zündapp fluttered his eyes open to the same room, even less dingy than when he last remembered it. Nothing had changed, thank the Manufacturer.

It didn't benefit him that he rarely slept when he was imprisoned, so that was a reasonable explanation as to why he suddenly fell unconscious. To lighten things a bit, not a soul had burst into his state of his weakness, especially a soul that sided with the other faction.

With Finn McMissile's faction.

But the Professor wouldn't let his unstable emotions cease him from working on his weapon. He lifted himself up on his tires and glanced one more time at the abandoned room.

"What could be an efficient way to craft a weapon,_"_ the Janus Zündapp questioned himself as he examined every particle, "of mass destruction?"

A pause. He looked in front of him and found an answer. "...Books, hm?"

The Professor drove up to the shelf stacked with publications. He picked up one that was titled Gone With the Wind - _no, thank you, not helpful – _set it back in place_, _and skipped that lowest shelf altogether because it was labeled "Literature". Skimming the higher shelves, he unveiled the truth that the resourceful books, the anthologies of educational information, were located on the most elevated ledge.

"Well, what do we have here," Zündapp sarcastically spoke in a monotone voice, "A rack in which I cannot reach on my own."

He scavenged every bit of the facility, only to find nothing that promised quality leverage. Everything was either too miniscule or enormous.

The time was now to put the Professor's last resort into action: leaping onto the shelf. He didn't care if he dented himself, all that mattered was getting more ideas as to what to build.

Zündapp jumped. He struggled to attach his tires to the wooden ledge without toppling it over, for that would create a suspicious noise. His body felt as though it was being widened as he preserved an upwards stance.

Pain coursed prominently throughout his front, attempting to tune it out while reading the title of each jumbo-sized hardback book.

_Hm, _Zündapp narrowed his eyes at each installment's topics. _Statistics? I don't intend to study mathematics, I was an A-student. The history of Earth? Appealing, but no. A collection of orchestra sheet music? Ah... Not my cup of tea._

Just when he was about to give up searching and mitigate his agony, the torn-up, aged book in between a guide to traveling across countries and a classical poetry compilation caught his dull, gray eye behind the monocle.

100 Ways to Unleash Your Wickedness With Weaponry. That equaled the name of the title, surprisingly handwritten. _Yes, exactly what I have been hunting for. Excellent._

With a swift movement the book disappeared from its place. The mint green mechanism leaped with agility off the sill, book tightly grasped and recovering from the daring motion he achieved. At an average pace, he headed west and towards the desk, carefully laying the resource for evil besides the computer.

_Speaking of the computer, _Professor Zündapp pondered,_ I shall see how it will aid me on my endeavor for vengeance._

A tire was all that was obligatory for him to online the desktop. The opening image appeared on the screen, which was black with nothing but a logo on it that belonged to the Windows company. He all ready could tell due to his strength of easily knowing what model a certain computer was, and this make was from 1999.

While waiting for the computer to completely load, Zündapp opened the book that he grabbed from the bookshelf, coughing mildly as dust exploded from the interior. It cleared in order for the initial page to be comprehensive, which was also not written by a printing press. The purpose for this was explained simply on the page after the first: "Copyright 1979" was printed with remarkable penmanship on the lowest line of the paper.

The Professor seemed wary about actually using this for a weapon idea. It was published thirty-five years ago, not three, so he reckoned that he would have to use a fraction of his imagination to pull off the ultimate threat to every national, possibly international authoritative cars.

Thankfully, to avert getting lost in the publication, a table of contents was listed, filling up two entireties of worn pages. The amount of pages total rounded to five hundred, whereas most volumes for havoc-wreckers lasted three hundred. _Impressive, _the Janus Zündapp sniggered.

His weapons of choice tended to be radioactive, ergo he decided to try something different yet more effective. Leafing through the divisions, he found different types of weapons listed, such as "Sharp and Pointy", "Explosive", and "Exotic". What called his name in yearning, though, was the end section labeled "Poisonous".

"Yes," the Professor grinned from fender to fender in delight as he flipped the page and inaudibly read off the weapon type's description, which stated, "Poison. It causes death in a flash and can wipe out several in ten seconds flat. Deadly to any respiratory, circulatory, immune, digestive, and lymphatic system, poison is one of the most dangerous methods of unleashing fury upon anyone."

He skipped through the following couple of legitimate handwritten paragraphs and stumbled across the one that defined the drawbacks of choosing the method.

"However, having an exceptionally strong immune system is recommended for using poison. There has been a recorded accounts of a villain spreading poison darts to kill her enemy and accidentally being shot by one. Her life vanished in less than five seconds; she was only thirty when she died and still an up-and-coming menace. To solve this problem, please wear a heavy-duty mask whenever holding or utilizing poisonous objects."

That was definitely an issue. His immune system wasn't the most indestructible aspect of his bodily functions, meaning that he couldn't fend off illnesses very well. His not-so-young age did contribute to it.

Wearing a mask sounded like a sufficient way to prevent himself from killing not only the enemy but his own self. All he needed was to actually have one in front of him.

Which it was. A leather mask flanked the side of the fully loaded computer, not a scratch decorating it. _Why do I have the feeling that this is a set-up?_ Zündapp raised a brow in confusion. _Because if any of those rotten, good-for-nothing agents planned this, I will murder them in a pool of their own oil. _

The image of the black car that tried to block him from escaping the jail, dead with freshly-spilled oil flowing from his corpse entered the realm of his imaginative half of his brain. The Professor tried to keep in mind that this was a "what if I win" kind of deal. He didn't want to think about the "what if I fail" deal; no, not yet.

All that he really wanted to lock in his conscious was how to make the poisonous weapons from the book with a few modern touches of his own. First, though, he had to protect himself from joining the numbers of fallen cars.

And all that he did to accomplish that was to put on the leather mask.


End file.
